


Sedecim Epistula (Diary VI)

by ssa_archivist



Category: Smallville
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-03
Updated: 2005-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-01 08:04:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/354138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssa_archivist/pseuds/ssa_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dearest friend'That is what you are, isn't it? Why else would you slip into my room, going through the trouble to remain undetected, only to leave me a note and watch me sleep? I'd like to think you're a compassionate stalker. I'm flattered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sedecim Epistula (Diary VI)

## Sedecim Epistula (Diary VI)

by lostmarble

<http://lostmarble.deviantart.com>

* * *

I don't own anything about Smallville, or Midtown's "Memory." The storyline is mine, however...steal it and I'll shove a billiard cue up your...never mind. Violence is not the answer. 

Reviews make me happier than a shirtless Lex. idiosyncrasy132@yahoo.com 

For your convenience, the English translations of Latin texts are filed as a separate story called, creatively enough, "Diary: The Latin Texts." Hope it helps 

<hr>. 

Sedecim Epistula 

Quibus pauci lacuna meritus mille questio 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

I flew in yesterday afternoon with a pounding headache, too hung over to even be squeamish about being in the airplane. 

When I stumbled in the door of the mansion a few hours later, I went immediately to my medicine cabinet and took enough ibuprofen to knock out a small elephant. I then stripped down to my boxers and fell into bed, staring at the television until I fell asleep, engaging in an unaccustomed activity that I knew would take my mind off of the cause of my hangover--the reason that I had felt the need to get, as the English say, "utterly pissed." 

I didn't wake again until the first shafts of light hit my bed as the sun rose this morning. 

I hadn't gotten more than six hours of sleep on any night in recent memory, and marveled at the good it had done me. Stretching my slightly aching muscles, and noting the lack of ache in my head, I felt almost human again. 

I rolled over, enjoying the sensation of being well-rested and still having time to relax in bed before having to leave for work at the shit factory. 

There was a note on my bedside table, a tiny white card folded in half with my name printed on the front in a neat, asexual, and unfamiliar hand. 

)-*-( 

Dearest Lex-- 

Do you know that the symbol on your wrist means "hope"? The language is an...obscure one, so odds are slim that you know it, whatever your reasons are for choosing the symbol. Maybe you do know what it means. After all, there are many things I don't know about you. Interesting choice, either way. I'm sure you've already translated the Latin. 

Now you know the entire meaning. 

P.S. You look beautifully innocent when you sleep. 

On the back: 

Can I be your memory? 

)-*-( 

I stared open-mouthed. The fact that I manifested my surprise in any visible way was, in itself, a mark of how shocked I truly was. 

Ordinarily, nothing overcomes my training. 

But. 

Innocent? Beautiful?? 

What on earth? 

I know who I hope it is. 

And I know that that's wishful thinking. 

Not because I don't think that Clark probably knew that the symbol meant hope--I do-- but because the note addressed me as Dearest. The only two people who ever called me that are dead, so it must be someone else... 

And then the bizarre nature of the note's appearance on my nightstand finally registered. 

They were watching me sleep? How did they get in? Was it one of my staff? I rather doubt it. After that fiasco with that girl few years ago--the one that had a crush on me and whose brother tried to kill me for rejecting her--I have been so careful of who I hire. Old women and straight men, only. None of their families live on or near the mansion's grounds. 

That leaves trained assassins and spies. They have gotten past security before--not here, but certainly in Metropolis. But why would they break in just to leave me a note--such a personal one, at that? Even now, I am unsure whether the shiver running down by back is due to apprehension or pleasure at its contents. And how could they possibly have seen the markings? I have kept them well hidden. Even while I was in Metropolis, and went to clubs where shirtsleeves would have made me look avuncular, I wore a leather cuff covering them. I even slept in the damned thing. 

So...Clark is really the only one that comes to mind that is consistently able to slip past my systems, but he rarely does that any more. He rarely visits without a purpose and, with the exception of the night before I left for Chicago (which I will not think about in detail, as I am presently trying to be rational), certainly does not visit the mansion at night. That was an anomaly. 

We have not been on the closest of terms recently. 

Part of this (most, says my miraculously surviving conscience, but I ignore it) is my fault. A conflict of interest--you cannot study a person, have them investigated like a specimen, and still hope to maintain a relationship with them--certainly not on any level that is truly meaningful. Your questions will inevitably cross the borders of trust and friendship, and, also inevitably, the subject/friend will realize what you are doing. If, like me, you continue to "research" your friend in spite of it all, and though you swore that the investigation was finished, you had it stepped up, could that relationship ever really be salvaged a second time? A third? How many betrayals before any love still held turns to loathing? 

I'm like a Clark Kent addict--I know I'm no more entitled to his secrets than he is to mine, but as I have said before: I want all or nothing; I am a man of extremes. And I certainly want it all in this case--his love and his secrets. 

Avarus animus nullo satiatur lucro. 

Have I now ensured that I will never truly have either, if we have fallen so far apart that he does not habitually seek me out for reasons other than favors or help on papers? 

My father once illustrated to me why my desire for acceptance in Smallville, especially with Clark and the Kents, would have disastrous results. Prometheus was a god that once tried to mingle with mortals--he even introduced fire to men. However, Zeus, king of the gods, discovered what he had done, and chained him to a rock for eternity, where his entrails were eaten out each day by vultures. 

Cute. Really, Dad. 

But it got the point across. 

However, he neglected the ending after the ending--when Prometheus was rescued from his exile by Hercules. You've heard of Hercules--the obscenely strong demigod who made it his mission later in life to help others. He was nearly invulnerable, hence the cause of mythological speculation surrounding his eventual death. The moral of this story? 

Contra Felicem vix deus vires habet. 

And who is luckier, after all, than Clark Kent? 

Epiphany hit. I almost felt like shouting "Eureka!" Except for the fact that I rarely shout, and I hate that word. It makes me feel like a mad scientist. Alright, maybe I hate that because it's a little bit accurate. 

But the quote--it's from a song. I don't remember the name... 

What's important here are the lyrics. 

If it's who I think it is... 

Walking over to my desk, I pulled out a small piece of stationary, the type of card usually reserved for addressing gifts to those you feel obliged to buy something for, but to whom you really have nothing to say. 

This time, its purpose was different: it could say everything, depending on who read it. 

I was possessed by the absurd urge to share some valuable truth, as I had gained something useful from the card this morning. 

I could feel my features forming themselves into a small, true smile. 

Curiouser and curiouser. 

Judging from recent experiences, I can be more open on paper than in person. Still, I attempted to keep my guard up, as images of cars flying off bridges and into churning water filled my mind, and I thought back... 

)-*-( 

Dearest friend-- 

That is what you are, isn't it? Why else would you slip into my room, going through the trouble to remain undetected, only to leave me a note and watch me sleep? I'd like to think you're a compassionate stalker. I'm flattered. 

I won't ask who you are. I don't want you to tell me, however much I want to know. Not yet. I'd like to wonder. 

The Latin means "one to remember," or "one serves memory," depending on who you ask. My translation is more along the lines of, "one serves to preserve the memory." Sometimes, one is enough. 

Just as I'm wondering about your identity, you'll have to speculate about the story behind the markings on my wrist. 

You haven't earned that much trust yet. 

\--Lex 

On the back: 

So get back, back, back to the disaster 

)-*-( 

So. 

Hope. 


End file.
